


Cleanse

by Anima Nightmate (faithhope)



Series: All For One and, well, you know the rest... [13]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Amateur Psychology, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anger, Angst, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Confessions, Consensual, Dominance, Heavy Angst, Humour, Hurt/Comfort, Lube, M/M, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Spoilers for s2e7 - A Marriage of Inconvenience, Spoilers for s2e8 - The Prodigal Father, at least they tried eh?, compassionate topping, slightly rubbish safe words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 04:39:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16033151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithhope/pseuds/Anima%20Nightmate
Summary: The young Gascon had burst into his rooms, dripping wet and glaring. He’d lowered his book, brows rising in the middle. “Wh–”“She’ll have none of me!”Athos had closed his eyes on a deep breath, forehead resting lightly on his hand. “Did you –?”“I went to speak to her.”“After she told you –beggedyou to leave her alone?”“Yes.”He’d pinched the loose skin just above his nose. “After I suggested you give it – giveher– time?”His teeth had gritted. “Yes.”*Constance and d’Artagnan are holding each other at arm’s length and Athos finds himself offering comfort to both of them. In her case in the form ofchess and self-defence training. Inhiscase, well… now read on…From a prompt bytheredwagon: “d’Artagnon/Athos, a wall… and something very steamy?”





	Cleanse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theredwagon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theredwagon/gifts).



“Come on!”

“Hold on. Where are we going, d’Artagnan?” He thinks this may be the third time of asking.

“Just. Somewhere. Anywhere. Away.” Athos is fairly sure that the next phrase is a mutter along the lines of: “Because _someone_ is too nice to do this in his quarters,” but the wind and the rain make it hard to be sure.

Not half an hour before, the young Gascon had burst into his rooms, dripping wet and glaring. He’d lowered his book, brows rising in the middle. “Wh–”

“She’ll have none of me!”

Athos had closed his eyes on a deep breath, forehead resting lightly on his hand. “Did you –?”

“I went to speak to her.”

“After we spoke with Treville about Porthos and Belgard?”

“Yes.”

Athos had sighed. He could imagine d’Artagnan using a rationale, at least to himself, of: “look how short life can be, how regrets keep a hold on you” to follow through on his own desires.

“After she told you – _begged_ you to leave her alone?”

“Yes.”

He’d pinched the loose skin just above his nose. “After I suggested you give it – give _her_ – time?”

His teeth had gritted. “Yes.”

“How…?” He’d looked up.

“I…” His face had clenched. “I followed her…”

Athos had let out a low noise, brows rising, eyes locked on the other’s.

Setting his jaw, gaze somewhere on the wall, d’Artagnan had said: “It was the first time she’d left her rooms in… Anyway.” He’d breathed out hard through his nose.

“You spoke?”

“We spoke, and…”

“And?”

“And nothing. She’ll have none of me. I told you.”

Athos’s eyes had narrowed at this.

“So…”

“So?”

“Well…”

He’d tutted. “Are you coming?”

“Where?”

The younger man had flung himself out of the door, tossing “Out!” over his shoulder.

Cursing briefly, he’d put down his book and lifted his outdoor clothes off the hook, slinging them over his arm, hastening after him.

And now, d’Artagnan is stalking ahead of him, every dim line of him speaking impatience. Athos is glad he’d managed to have enough forethought to bring a covered lantern with him. He’s wishing, of all things, that Aramis and Porthos were here – they’d take him out, get him stinking drunk, pour ribald sense into him, then kick his hungover arse in the courtyard the next morning.

What can I do?

_Just be there for him._

What more than that?

He puts on a spurt of speed, catches up with d’Artagnan at the mouth of a narrow passageway, lays his hand on his shoulder. The younger man spins, fury livid on his face for a moment before something else drops through his expression and he’s pulling Athos’s face towards his.

He tastes of red wine and rainwater. Cheap bread and salt. All Athos can do is bundle them sideways into the alley, barely wide enough for one slim body, feeling d’Artagnan’s heat crush against him with a moan, hands going into his hair.

He is hampered by the lantern, considers breaking off to extinguish it, to draw darkness over them, thoughts starting to scatter at the sensations of his lover’s mouth against his, his breath coming heavy. For a moment he envisages, bright as fever, pushing d’Artagnan to his knees to take him in his mouth, here and now, the sensation of wet brickwork at his back, the hiss and hammer of rain as he muffled his cries with his own gloved hand.

Terrible idea. Terrible, terrible idea. Jesus. He summons all his strength, reminding himself that now, more than ever, his reckless companion needs him to look after both their safety.

He wrenches himself back, leaning a firm palm against the hollow of d’Artagnan’s shoulder for good measure. “Not here,” he murmurs.

D’Artagnan’s look, in the low light, is unreadable, but his voice rings with a bitter edge. “Sounds familiar.” He slumps back against the opposite wall.

“I’m just loo–”

“Looking out for our safety, I know. But I don’t have the coin, or the patience, for yet another sneaking trip to yet another stinking inn where we hope they don’t know us.” _Know you_ , says his head-turned silence.

Athos works his jaw side to side, blinks. “Then find us somewhere more secluded, where no-one will come who would want us dead for this.”

He doesn’t know what part of this sparks the thought that gathers d’Artagnan upright. “All right. Come on.”

“Sounds familiar,” he murmurs to the sodden brickwork, heaves himself forward and after his wayward lover.

*

The first thing he notices is the warmth, the striking contrast to outdoors. After bolting the heavy door, he finds himself immediately undoing the lower clasps on his cloak. Ahead, still ahead, d’Artagnan is stalking through the dark and crowded space, hands busy at his neck as he goes, gloves already off and thrust through his belt.

Athos bashes his leg on a low, very solid surface, hisses. Lifting his lamp high, he sees that the space between them is filled with… tubs…? D’Artagnan strides on, seemingly oblivious, weaving through them with ease.

He wonders if he should tell Aramis that the rumours about Gascons seeing in the dark are clearly true, shakes his head and proceeds with caution, his sight adapting now he knows what to look for.

The place has the feel of somewhere that should be crowded; the sense of an abandoned barracks, an empty market. Everywhere is the scent of damp cloth, lye soap, wet wood, and cheap plaster. This is a place of industry with no workers. A terrible suspicion comes over him.

“D’Artagnan…!”

“Just up here!”

He picks up his pace. “What is this place…?” sounding a warning note in his voice: _I think know, please tell me I’m wrong_.

“A place no-one will come. Not for a while, anyway.”

God have mercy.

The Gascon rounds a pillar, his voice floating back to him. “Up here. It’ll be even more _secluded_.”

His boots thump up stairs and Athos follows, cursing with every step, itching to grab his lover by the scruff of his neck and tell him precisely how many types of fool he is.

They trudge a couple of flights up to where the roof slopes, and it smells of dust and paper, the residual damp warmth penetrating here as well. This is clearly somewhere for storage. Athos can’t imagine the man neglecting to use any spare space available to him.

A thump and clatter. D’Artagnan throws his weapons belt down on top of his greatcoat. Athos places the lantern on top of a shoulder-high stack of wooden boxes and stops beside it, regarding d’Artagnan.

“Well?” the younger man demands.

“Well?” he returns, mildly, taking off his hat, laying it next to the lantern.

“Is this _secluded_ enough for you? _Safe_ enough for you?”

Athos undoes his cloak, shrugs it off and hooks it over the corner of the box in the hopes that it might air a little.

“A watchman?” he asks, still mild, still coolly reasonable, starting to remove his weapons belt.

“You bolted the door, didn’t you?”

He lays it on the floor next to the boxes. “Are there other entrances?”

“I. Does it matter?”

His voice heats a little now. “We’ve broken into –” d’Artagnan opens his mouth on a sneer, “Oh, I’m sorry – we’ve _used a stolen key_ to enter this place – and I thought we taught you better than to leave the entrances unmarked.”

“You want safety, I want something more stimulating – is this not a compromise?”

His eyes narrow. “Not as such.”

“We’re more than a match for any watchman in a place like this.”

“You want us to maim a man for doing an honest job? That’s not the work of Musketeers.”

“ _Sodomy_ isn’t the work of Musketeers either, unless I missed something in that little speech Treville gave me last year.”

His teeth clench along with one fist. He reminds himself that d’Artagnan is doing his best to goad him, to provoke a violent response.

_It’s close to working._

He takes a half-step forward, schools himself, hard, forcing his breathing slower, his fist open.

He licks his lips. “What do you want of me, d’Artagnan?”

“What here, now?”

“Yes.”

“What I always want. You, your body, _our_ bodies together. Come on!”

“D’Ar…”

“Or maybe I should spell it out for you.” He takes a breath, a quick look over his shoulder, backs towards the wall behind him, raises his eyebrows. “I want you to come here and fuck me.”

“I d–”

“I’ve no _time_ for this,” he cuts in, volume rising.

“Please…”

Hands up, heedless, voice breaking, he shouts, finger pointing: “I said: come here and _fuck me!_ ”

And Athos says: “No.”

“ _What did you say?!_ ” It is shrill with incredulity.

Voice tightly reined, he tells him: “We’ve always observed certain… rules. Safeguards. I wouldn’t be showing proper care for you if… if I acceded blindly to –” He stops. D’Artagnan is glaring at him, whole body a single curve of bowstring. In the candlelight, it appears to be vibrating. Softly, he continues: “I won’t punish you for feeling bad. And,” he adds after a deep breath. “you can’t compel me to. What would we be together if…”

“You,” he grits out, “have picked a fine fucking time to get,” his teeth tighten even further, “ _philosophically chatty_.”

Athos tucks his lower lip between his teeth, licks at it. “You want me to take charge of you, is that it?”

“Yes.” Sulky, glowering.

“Then,” and he winds the cord of command into his voice, points to the floor in front of him, “come here, _boy_.”

D’Artagnan winces, but complies slowly.

“On your knees.”

He crashes down.

Athos rests his gloved hands on his hips and d’Artagnan runs the flats of his hands up his thighs, heading slowly towards his points.

“Now. Tell me what’s going on.”

“What?!”

“Do you trust me?”

“I… Yes.”

“Then tell me,” and every pound of compulsion, trust, and command he can muster arcs through his tone, “what you’re really feeling.” D’Artagnan draws breath. “All of it.”

D’Artagnan rests his hands on the waistband of Athos’s breeches, casts his gaze upwards, and he must know what kind of picture he draws, eyes enormous, mouth just starting to drop open; Christ knows he’s told him often enough. “Are you sure,” he purrs, “you wouldn’t prefer me to…”

Athos takes his wrists, grips them hard. “ _Don’t make me ask again._ ”

D’Artagnan’s brow goes up in the middle and his jaw works spasmodically as though about to speak. He slumps, and Athos follows him down, gentling his grip and squatting next to him. As his arms twitch, Athos releases his wrists, shifts, and closes the fingers of his right hand gently around his right forearm. One heavy breath later and d’Artagnan is seizing his in turn.

“Oh, Athos.”

“I’m here.”

“I’m so. I’m just.”

“Tell me.”

He sighs. “I’m so _angry_.”

He lets his face say: _Why?_

“She. This. We,” he gestures with his free hand, palm upwards, helpless. “We could be _happy_. _Completely_ happy at _last_.”

“And you told her this?”

“I did. She. She was so cold, so reserved. Not. Not _my_ Constance.” He looks up at him. “Not _our_ Constance.”

Athos’s heart quails a little. He releases d’Artagnan, moves to sit down fully on the floor close beside him, stripping off his gloves as he does so.

D’Artagnan rakes his fingers through his hair and then runs his hands over his face, a gesture of frustration that’s so familiar he feels his own throat thicken, swallows it down, focuses.

Hold on.

“Wait, where was this?”

D’Artagnan mumbles into his hands.

“Sorry?”

“At his _grave_ , okay?” Uncovered, his voice is sharp and uneven, ringing flatly off the walls.

“Ah.” A pause. “And you spoke there.”

“Yes.” He sniffs hard. “Well, just by. And she told me that she… that it wasn’t fair to take advantage.”

_And?_

“She told me that she needed time.”

“Right.”

“She was… emphatic on that point.”

“Well…”

“And I.”

 _Go on._ He reaches to hold his upper arm, winding the tips of his fingers under his pauldron – soft and firm.

“I told her I was glad that Bonacieux was dead.”

Athos can’t quite prevent the wince escaping.

“I know. And I told her that… if… Ah, Athos.”

“Go on; I’ve got you.” He gently tightens his grip.

“I told her to take all the time she needed but ‘when you finally make up your mind and you want me, I might not be there any more.’” His expression is an agony of mixed righteousness, despair, and something like contempt. Athos doesn’t think it’s for her.

“Ah.” He frowns. “ _When_ was this?”

“Er…”

“Because it was after sundown when you came to me and –”

“I went to a tavern. Tried. Tried to drink it away but. His face.”

Ah, hell. Another grievously injured man d’Artagnan can’t save.

“He.” D’Artagnan’s face is wild now. “He. He, dying, he told me… told me we’d never be happy together. That he. He cursed us. Cursed me. His blood on my hands, on hers. I did that. Me.” He thumps his chest. “What. What. Athos, _what am I going to do?!_ ”

And finally the tears break out properly. He gathers him to his chest, lets him sob it out, shaking and wailing. He strokes his hair, murmuring variations on “there” and “it’s all right” until he shudders finally into deeper, quieter breaths.

“Oh, my love,” he says, the words tugged straight from the heart of him. D’Artagnan gulps and quivers, a high and wordless sound ripped from his throat, and he throws his arms around Athos like he’s the rock of his salvation.

Athos can feel tremors in his chest like something frantic and trapped. He knows – absolutely _knows_ – that d’Artagnan is wrong to trust him like this, that he has nothing to offer him that could be worth this much of any man’s pride and honour, let alone this one’s. D’Artagnan is mistaken and misguided, foolish, dooming himself to disappointment. More to the point: he has misled him into thinking him worthy.

And he continues to encircle him, firm and warm, rocking gently on the floor of Bonacieux’s storage room, reaching out and holding himself steady for him as though he were a whole man indeed.

He can’t let him down. Not this one. Not now. Maybe, when the others have returned, he can leave, just for a few hours, find a tavern and.

Damn.

And he holds, holds, holds, gripped tight, knowing that a part of him has already been softened, having said so much, already inhabiting the reality of loving and being loved. Already knowing that, nestled awkwardly alongside his perception of unfitness, is his knowledge of worthiness in love.

And both these notions have sharp elbows.

Broaden your stance. Stand firm until the cracking point. Do it for him.

D’Artagnan has hiccoughed himself to a looser frame, a smoother set of breaths now. He sits up, sniffing hard, and Athos can feel in the movement of air where his own neck is soaked. He reaches up and pushes d’Artagnan’s hair back from his face, tucks it behind his ears, slow and gentle.

“Hah,” he says. “Thanks,” and he reaches to pat Athos on the chest. “Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s not a problem.”

“I.” He swipes awkwardly along the front of Athos’s shoulder. “I think I may have got some snot on your doublet there as well.”

“It’s had worse.”

“Hah.”

And they chorus: “Chartres.”

Athos mimics d’Artagnan, bouncy and dismissive: “‘Just let it dry and brush it off…’”

D’Artagnan mimics Athos, scandalised, sententious: “‘I can’t just _leave_ it. What will the Bishop think?!’”

Athos says, in his own voice: “The cloak covers a multitude of sins.”

“That it does.” D’Artagnan’s eyes meet Athos’s properly for the first time that evening. “I’m sorry.”

“It did brush off, in the end.”

D’Artagnan rolls his eyes in acknowledgement. “I mean…” he gestures.

“There’s nothing to forgive. This,” he takes his hand, “is part of the deal.”

“I suppose so.”

“Although the next time you want to break into your lover’s dead husband’s laundry for some kind of… post-mortem revenge fuck, I’d take it as a kindness if you told me in advance.”

“Technically…”

He just looks at him.

“Fine. I’ll run all my post-mortem revenge fuck scenarios past you in future.”

“Very wise.”

They sit for a while, silent, listening to the rain pummel the roof, the building settle awkwardly around them.

“So what now?” asks d’Artagnan, eventually.

“This was _your_ plan…”

“Hmm. True…”

D’Artagnan reaches up, lays his hand against Athos’s cheek. Athos immediately nuzzles against it, seeking its warmth, hears the gentle rasp of his beard against d’Artagnan’s fingers and, eyelids drooping, reaches out himself, palm cupping his cheek, thumb brushing across his mouth. D’Artagnan leans, and his lips whisper across Athos’s.

Athos feels his breath drop, leans in himself, and their lips begin to move slowly, light and learning.

He finds himself unable to stop stroking his fingers through d’Artagnan’s hair, bewitched all over again by its texture, running his thumb repeatedly along his jaw, feeling the faint prickle of stubble against him. D’Artagnan moans lightly, tilting his head, opening the kiss deeper. And now their tongues are caressing, gently at first, both of them being cautious, courteous, slow and deliberate.

When d’Artagnan’s teeth graze his lower lip, whether purposefully or not, he finds himself surging towards him on a moan as heat blossoms and wells in his gut, fingers harder across his scalp, one hand gripping him by the shoulder. D’Artagnan kneels up to meet him, pulls him closer, sends his hands to plane over his back and up through his hair before starting to work at the buttons on Athos’s doublet.

“Oh God,” he groans, fingertips scraping at the nape of d’Artagnan’s neck to hear him hiss and sway. He runs his thumbs firmly up either side of his lover’s jaw, kisses him hard, feels his arms and fingers go boneless for a moment before he redoubles his assault on the buttons. And then the garment swings open and his hands are slipping around his ribs to caress, while Athos sways and hisses in his turn. He wrenches the ties of d’Artagnan’s doublet apart and dives in to drag hard fingertips down his sides, cursing when d’Artagnan finds and rolls a nipple, feels himself grow harder and starts to tug at at his lover’s shirt, starving for the touch of his bare skin.

D’Artagnan pulls his head towards him again, captures his mouth in bruising kisses. He feels like he can barely breathe, panting hard, their moans breaking out in chorus when he finally gets the shirt free, cups his narrow torso in a slow slide upwards.

“Fuck. Fuck, yes,” d’Artagnan mutters, over and over, keening when Athos takes his mouth to his neck, sucking at the junction with his shoulder hard enough to bruise, and he doesn’t care; wants, suddenly, for him to bear his mark.

D’Artagnan seizes his hair suddenly, pulls back, face dropped open. “Jesu,” he pants. “Fucking. _Yes_.”

On something like a growl, Athos grabs his arse, pulls them together, feels d’Artagnan start to grind on him, seemingly helplessly, each thrust punctuated by a savage moan.

He waits until he’s right on the brink of being unable to stop, then pulls him back by his hair, watches the thrill run through him, his hips still pumping at the air.

“Control yourself,” he says, voice low.

He fights to contain his movements, breath and colour hectic, tucking back on his heels as Athos relinquishes him. “Oh God. Oh God, _please_ Athos.”

“What. Mmh. What do you _need?_ ”

“I.” D’Artagnan closes his eyes, and Athos can see him trying to quiet himself, fists clenched on each thigh. “I want. Mm. I need you to… to take charge of me. Take. Take command of me. Please.”

“Why?”

D’Artagnan whimpers, eyes still screwed shut. “I. I can’t be alone in my head like this. It’s too noisy.”

Athos nods sadly. He knows exactly what that’s like. Knows the lengths a man can go to in order to mute the baffle of echoes bouncing off the inside of his skull.

Quietly, he tells him: “I can do that.”

D’Artagnan sniffs hard. “You,” he says, thickly, clears his throat. “You’d do that now?”

“Whatever you need. I told you.”

“You just. Hah. You just needed some time.”

“So did you.” He regards him for a moment. “Open your eyes, d’Artagnan.”

He does, and the trust that beams out of them nearly undoes him.

“Do you trust me?” he asks again, anyway.

“Yes.”

“And you want to surrender to me tonight.”

“Yes.”

“How far?”

“Oh, God save me – as far as… as far as you, you can.”

He nods. “Get up.”

D’Artagnan scrambles to his feet, and Athos follows, a little slower. He gazes at him a moment, then pulls him by his shirtfront into a slow, hard kiss. When he pulls back, d’Artagnan’s eyes are glazed. He twists the fabric around his fist a little, then steers him backwards towards the nearest clear stretch of wall. The lantern now casts its light over his shoulder. He thinks it probably has about an hour left, maybe longer.

More than enough.

He presses into him, pushing his shoulders into the wall, watches his head go back, feels himself grow harder again at his heat; the way his hips make tiny, involuntarily rocking motions; the thin sounds gathering at the back of his throat.

He rolls his own hips forward slowly, deliberately, letting him feel his arousal.

“Oh God, Athos –”

In rapid calculation, he presses his forearm across his chest, growls: “You’re mine tonight. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You only speak to answer a direct question or to ask me to stop, until I tell you otherwise. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“If you say ‘No’ or ‘Stop’ I stop immediately. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to fuck you –”

“Oh, Jesu– _Ahh!_ ” Athos has buried both hands in his hair and pulled it tight.

“Do not interrupt me. _Do not speak except to request cessation_. Do you understand me?”

“Yes!”

He releases him, slowly. “So: I’m going to fuck you. Hard. Do you accede?”

“Yes, oh– _mmh_.” D’Artagnan pinches his lips together in sudden contrition.

“Good. Now.” He pauses, gazing at him, blank-faced. “Get on your knees.”

D’Artagnan’s breathing hitches once and he sinks immediately. His hands tremble towards Athos’s points, looking up at him. Athos smiles down at him; proprietary, a little scornful. “Yes, you may.”

D’Artagnan fumbles his breeches open, reaches inside to draw him out to a hiss of arousal. Athos leans his weight forward onto the wall. “Take me in your mouth. Do it now. _Slowly_. Unh. Good. Good. That’s… good.”

D’Artagnan draws him down deep, tongue sweeping all around as he does so. Athos clenches his teeth hard to suppress the longing groan gathering in his throat. He leans his weight against the wall on his outstretched hands, relishing the roughness of it, the contrast serving to distract him just enough from–

Fuck. Fuck, d’Artagnan has taken him all the way into his throat, and is, dear Christ, hollowing his cheeks against him, warm and tight and he starts to rock, can’t help it, must… must make it deliberate, make. Fuck.

Marshalling the diminishing coherence of his thoughts he withdraws almost to the head, then pushes slowly back in, feeling d’Artagnan swallow against him. Back out, then in faster. Fuck. He pulls back, looks down – he is staring straight back up at him.

He reaches down and cups the back of d’Artagnan’s head, tenderly at first then, as he gets halfway in, hard as he pushes against it. D’Artagnan makes a sound somewhere between startlement and arousal, so he does it again, faster, d’Artagnan’s left hand clutching hard in his breeches, grunting loudly. And it’s only on the third that he curses himself, thinking: how the fuck is he to tell you if this is too much?

He slows, withdraws almost completely and d’Artagnan, on a hoarse sound, dives onto him, taking him so deep that he can reach his tongue and lap at his balls for the length of his held breath.

Athos stifles the yelp that’s summoned from him and just leans against the wall and rocks into the willing mouth that laps at him until he realises that he’s in imminent danger of climaxing here and now, thereby forswearing himself.

Schooling his face, left hand fisted behind his back where d’Artagnan can’t see it, he seizes his head with his right and thrusts hard into his mouth twice more before withdrawing entirely, his system rioting as he does so.

 _An argument could be made for_ that _being fucking him…_

He dismisses the temptation – he knows what that phrase means to d’Artagnan.

“Stand up,” and his voice may be steady, but it’s rough as hell.

As he does so, he pushes him back against the wall, kisses him hard, biting at his lips, hearing d’Artagnan groan and feeling him rock back against him.

Well, I didn’t specifically forbid him from doing that.

He pulls him back by his hair again. “Keep still.”

“Yes, Athos.”

“That wasn’t a question.” And he tuts for good measure, watching his face fall open in dismay. “However, I don’t think it calls for a forfeit… this time.”

D’Artagnan manages to keep his mouth shut, eyes wide, brows high.

“However, it seems like your discipline still needs testing. Absolutely still.” Athos reaches between them, palms the bulge of d’Artagnan’s cock through his breeches. His head rocks back against the wall on another moan, and he can feel the tension in him as he braces his arms against it, fighting the urge to move into Athos’s friction.

“Oh, very good,” he purrs in his ear, after a while of this, during which he has taken at least two steps back from the brink himself. “Turn around, face the wall.”

D’Artagnan complies on a moan. Athos hauls his breeches up and buttons himself just enough to keep them from sliding down.

“You may move for this next part,” he tells him, moving in close and beginning to grind against his arse. D’Artagnan immediately pushes back towards him, and they rock together for a while.

“Undo your points,” he orders.

“Yes, Athos.”

“Oh dear.”

D’Artagnan manages to swerve his curse into a hiss.

“Undo your points,” he says again, “and push your breeches down. You may not touch your own cock. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“That includes attempting to fuck the wall. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

D’Artagnan manages to loosen his points and push his breeches down to the top of his boots.

“Good. Now gather your shirt up high so I can see you.” He complies. Athos makes a humming noise of approval.

“Spread your legs.”

He does.

“Wider. Bend forward a little. You can use the wall to steady yourself. Move your feet if you have to.”

Without warning he ducks, parts his buttocks roughly, and begins to tongue him. D’Artagnan moans loudly, bucking back towards his mouth. He uses little finesse, focusing within a few strokes purely on his hole, pushing inside as soon as he can. For a split instance he is back in Constance’s bed, hearing her aroused incredulity as he tongues d’Artagnan into a writhing mess. There is very little he does not love about this, but the sounds that his lover makes while he does it are among his most treasured sensations. He continues for a while; if he’s honest, this is something he’s doing for himself, to step closer to the moment, abandon a little control.

Recollecting his role for tonight, he stands, starts to rub his spit-moistened finger where his tongue has just left off. “Now,” he says, conversationally, “I could just ease the way like this alone, opening you for my cock with just tongue and fingers,” d’Artagnan whimpers, “but apparently you always carry oil with you, like the eager little harlot you are. Where is it?”

He points down. “My. My pocket.”

“Fetch it out for me.”

D’Artagnan swallows the burgeoning “Yes” into a strangled moan and dives to scramble in his pocket. It’s particularly cruel, he reflects, to tell a soldier that he must not give an affirmative after a direct order. No matter. These are the rules for tonight.

The familiar bottle, body warm, freshly filled, is fumbled into his hand and d’Artagnan returns to bracing his forearms on the wall, shirt pulled high between his teeth. Athos slicks his fingers and restoppers the bottle, slipping it into his own pocket. He circles d’Artagnan’s entrance with a single slow, careful fingertip, feeling his tension mount, keeps doing it until he’s sure he’s half-mad with anticipation, then, as slowly as he can, pushes inside.

“I’m going to open you up,” he murmurs into his ear, feeling him quiver, “and then I’m going to fuck you. Hard. Do you understand?”

“Mmh.” He snatches his shirt from between his teeth. “Y- _Yes_.”

“Good. Remember: don’t touch yourself.”

“ _Mmmh!_ ” Athos pushes further, another knuckle, pauses, then feels d’Artagnan push back, envelope him fully.

He chuckles, low and wicked: “Such a desperate little trull,” covering his own quivering feelings, withdrawing a little and pushing inside again, hearing d’Artagnan moan, feeling him push back against him again. He sets a slow but firm rhythm, finger lightly crooked, swivelling a little as he goes.

“Let’s add some more, shall we?” he says, a touch ahead of where d’Artagnan would normally be begging for it. His thrusts are somewhat harder now, the twist more pronounced, and he deliberately moves the fingers apart and together as he does, hearing the grunt as d’Artagnan realises that he’s not only purposefully working to open him faster than usual but is missing that special spot as he twists, and he pushes back in the middle of the stroke in a species of desperation.

“None of that,” says Athos, letting menace trickle into his tone. “You’ll take what you’re given tonight.”

A tapered, wavering moan as d’Artagnan swallows his disappointment, stilling, lending him his fuller trust.

“Good boy,” and Athos has not missed a beat this whole time, knowing that when he adds a third it’ll be harder to be this flexible. D’Artagnan gulps and whines at this, and he sees his head lean forward to rest on the back of his hands. He feels a need to ground his lover further in his own body, shut down his thoughts, so steps closer, torso against his side, strokes his free hand under his loose shirt, up his belly and chest, brushing across his nipples on the way up and down. D’Artagnan bites down on a whine, writhes.

“Be as loud as you want,” he encourages him, low, soothing, compelling.

“ _Hnnnnh!_ ” he responds, leaning into his touch.

Good.

A few strokes later he adds another finger, watches his back arch, feels his body stutter then start to match him thrust for thrust as he twists into him. He’s moaning on every push now, and struggling to take breath on each withdrawal. He’s rolling his face across the backs of his hands, and Athos pushes two of the fingers of his free hand into his mouth, feeling himself swell again as d’Artagnan blindly works his lips and tongue around him, cursing silently as he nips the pads, engulfs him fully, then scrapes his lower front teeth gently down the length of them.

If he means to push Athos to the edge he’s done a fine job, as he fights not to grind against him. He pulls his fingers free of that wicked mouth and curves his other fingers inside him, no longer twisting, stroking over that smooth, rounded place as best he can, feeling d’Artagnan buck and writhe, watching him slam the side of his free fist against the wall, hearing him moan hard between his teeth, the snarl of it surely scraping his throat even more raw.

He’d had a vaguely elaborate plan for withdrawing, making d’Artagnan turn and slick him slowly, making him beg for it, but his own need is drawing him now and he yanks his own points free, pulls himself out, tugs the stopper from the bottle with his teeth, pours oil with as much precision as he can muster, fumbles the stopper back in and the bottle into his pocket, twists his slippery hand around himself with a teeth-clenched moan, and withdraws his other hand from d’Artagnan, who whimpers, tries to follow his fingers back, and is met by the head of Athos’s cock.

His longing cry goes straight to Athos’s core and it’s all he can do to restrain himself. “Do you want this?”

“Yes, oh _God_ , yes.”

He pushes just enough to open him again, holding his hips in such a way to prevent him moving. D’Artagnan’s fingers hook and scratch at the wall.

“Speak.” He can barely recognise his own voice, ragged and achingly low.

“Oh God, fuck me, please, _please_ Athos! _Please! Fuck! Yes!_ ” As he enters him fully his tumbling volume mounts, and Athos grips him about the chest with one arm, weaves his other fingers into the back of his hair.

Oh fuck, so tight, despite all he’s done to stretch him. He thinks it might be the angle, although _think_ is becoming an increasingly distant thing as he sinks to his root into the clutching heat and rocks there, holding him securely.

He draws a deep breath, then another, pulls back and pushes in, hard. D’Artagnan cries out with it. He does it again. And again, and again, each time wringing a more ragged groan from d’Artagnan’s throat, hitting that particular place harder each time, pulling at his hair then switching to his shoulder when it’s clear he needs more leverage in a less potentially damaging way.

He feels his own pleasure mount and chases it, harder, faster, digging his nails into d’Artagnan’s chest and shoulder, feeling him grind back on him with each driving, plundering thrust, reminding himself not to touch his lover’s cock, because… because… orders ring in his mind from another Athos and he grunts into his stroke, circling with his hips, wringing sharper and sharper pleasure, sharper and sharper cries from both of them.

“Fuck! Fuck! _Fuck!_ ” shouts d’Artagnan abruptly, and he can feel him start to clench on him, experiences a moment’s astonishment before being ambushed by his own climax, shuddering, root-deep again inside him.

Fighting for breath, leaning his suddenly wobbly frame against him, he runs his hand down d’Artagnan’s belly, strokes gentle fingers up his iron-hard cock. He is tacky with sweat and wet with arousal, but “You haven’t climaxed yet.”

“No, no.” He pants. “No. Wait.” Frantic: “I mean – I haven’t. Please don’t, don’t stop. I mean…”

Athos chuckles. “Do you want to?”

“Oh God, please, Athos, _please_.”

He is still quite hard inside him, so punctuates his order with tiny thrusts. “ _Tell_ me pre _cise_ ly.”

“I want to come. Sweet Jesu, please, Athos, please – I’m _begging_ you. I’m on ff-ire. Please. _Please_ b-bring me. _Augh!_ ” This last as Athos tightens his grip, just this side of brutal, strokes him hard. Within a handful of sobbing thrusts into his fist he clenches with painful force around him, spends on a high and wordless cry, all strength plummeting from him so that Athos has to catch him and lower him gently to the ground while withdrawing.

*

They are lying together on their left sides, at the foot of the wall, Athos still cupped behind d’Artagnan, whose breathing is the quietest he’s heard it all night. One hand rests on his waist; the other arm is stretched straight along the floor beyond his head. He heaves himself up with a small grunt, propping the side of his head on his fist, the fingers of his other hand tightening lightly on d’Artagnan’s side.

“Hmm?”

“Come on.”

“Mmh.” He wriggles back into Athos’s chest. “Inaminute.”

He leans forward, brushes his hair away and kisses the side of his neck. “Come on.”

“Can’t move.”

“Really.”

“Mmh. Too comfy.” He reaches up with his free hand, holds Athos’s where it rests on his shoulder, then pulls it down to the centre of his chest, presses it there.

Athos closes his eyes for a long moment, just breathes. He starts to slip his hand free; d’Artagnan seizes it and brings it to his mouth where he starts to kiss the side of his finger gently.

“Hey,” he says softly.

D’Artagnan’s mouth curves in a smile and he starts to nip lightly at his skin, sending the tip of his tongue out to follow on hearing Athos’s small gasp.

“Hey,” he says a little more firmly. “That’s cheating.”

“Hah.”

“Well, it’s a hopeless case,” he says, yanking his hand free. “I’m off. Send me word when you’re imprisoned for vagrancy and I’ll…”

“Ach!” D’Artagnan turns heavily over onto his back, opens his eyes on a wry slant of mouth and brows to peer at Athos. “Fine.” He wriggles his breeches up over his hips and fastens them roughly, raises his hand. “Help me up then.”

Athos shakes his head. “Young people today…” he intones, shifting up to his knees and wincing.

“You were saying…?”

Athos shakes his head sententiously and grips d’Artagnan’s hand so that he can pull himself into a sitting position. “I’m starting to wonder if Fabron’s right and the _less experienced_ Musketeers need to start doing… what did he call them…?”

“‘Sit-ups’?”

“Something like that.”

D’Artagnan scrambles over into a kneeling position and cups Athos’s face. “Ah, please kiss me and tell me I’m forgiven.”

He stares. “Always.” And pulls them closer, finally allowing himself to melt into the embrace, the kiss, to let d’Artagnan’s lips tug heartfelt moans from his chest.

Finally they struggle and stagger to their feet, cocking wry expressions at each other as they begin to fasten and straighten their clothing properly, or at least enough to leave the building. Athos makes surreptitious use of his handkerchief.

D’Artagnan half-limps towards his weapons belt and Athos winces behind his back to see it. “Ooh. Christ. I hope there really isn’t a watchman.”

“Why? Because you’d just fall over on him?”

“Pretty much. Giggling.”

He waits until d’Artagnan’s looking back at him while buckling himself together, smiles softly, says: “That’s good.”

“Hmm.” D’Artagnan’s smile is small, warm, and a little more complex than usual, but absolutely genuine, and Athos feels a lot lighter for seeing it.

Completely dressed, they head down the stairs, Athos letting d’Artagnan take the lead and set the pace while he holds the dimming lantern. On the next floor down, however, he’s astonished to see d’Artagnan dive sideways, out of the stuttering ring of light. Frowning a little, looking around, he sees him hurrying back towards the stairwell, an awkward expression on his face.

“Look, I needed some clean cloth in a hurry, and, well, there’s plenty spare here. Don’t ask. You don’t want to know.”

“I–”

“Trust me.”

“All right.”

As they head down the next flight Athos says, haltingly, knowing that he probably shouldn’t, given his role, but at the same time: if this was the debrief after a covert mission, he’d want to know. “You’re all right?” And what he means is: “Was that all right? I haven’t hurt you, at any level?”

All he gets is a scoffing sound and: “You have to ask?” floating back up the stairs over the sounds of d’Artagnan’s slightly uneven footsteps.

He lets the smile drift through his voice. “I suppose not.”

“Although…”

His heart rate picks up. “Yes?” Slowly.

D’Artagnan is waiting for him on the ground floor, smiling. He smiles back.

“We need different words.”

“Hmm?”

“Well, if you think about it, ‘no’ and ‘stop’ are pretty common…”

“Fine, you think up a cipher next time.”

“Fine.”

They unbar the door, and stare at the sheer, howling filthiness of the weather. “Autumn is definitely here,” mutters Athos.

D’Artagnan steps out, fishing for the key, and Athos follows him, propping himself against the mercifully deep, leeward jamb, and resisting offering advice.

Door locked, d’Artagnan looks at the key, looks at Athos, looks at the key again, says “Fine,” and goes to shove it under the door. Athos’ hand on his wrist stops him. He looks up.

“Let’s keep our options open.” He plucks the key from d’Artagnan’s incredulous fingers and pockets it, handing him back his bottle on the return.

Stepping out into the huddled, screeching night he turns back, smiles at d’Artagnan and, holding out his hand, says: “Come on.”

**Author's Note:**

> Now read on with the final chapter of [Defences](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15779994/chapters/37361711).
> 
>  
> 
> (And before you say anything, yes: this was pretty darned difficult to do, essentially writing three stories in tandem. I’d like to say I’m never doing it like this again, but I’ve met me before, so…)
> 
>  
> 
> Many thanks again to theredwagon for a [a very juicy suggestion](https://archiveofourown.org/comments/159423645) at the point where I thought I was signing off from Musketeers fanfic. I hope you like it, ο ~~φίλος~~ φιλη μου.


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